by Hill, Bear
The soldier’s yellow eyes rolled forward and recognition sparked within them.
“Kill…me,“ the soldier said, his voice inhuman.
Dewayne stood silent and motionless as the reluctant skinwalker transformed before him.
“Kill…me…please.“
Dewayne tore his gaze away from the thing to see Wilson wrenching a leg off one of the overturned card tables. Wilson strode over to Dewayne’s side of the bar and tried to pass by him.
“No.“ Dewayne holstered his pistols. “I’ll do it.“
Wilson looked down at the no-longer-human thing writhing on the floor and then back up at Dewayne. He handed over the table leg without protest.
Dewayne tightened his grip on the makeshift club and took a step toward the soldier. The soldier exhaled and closed his eyes, making what was about to transpire easier for both of them.
Dewayne raised the club and then brought it crashing down on the soldier’s skull. The soldier’s head made a sound like a pumpkin being busted open as it caved inward. For a moment, the soldier seized. But a second hard blow from the table leg stilled him into silence.
One less rat, Dewayne thought, his subconscious mind tormenting him. He wretched as bile rose into his throat. Dewayne dropped the table leg and staggered backward. His eyes cut from his wounded shoulder to Wilson. “If—“ Dewayne said, his words coming hard, “if I start to change into one of them, you do the same for me.“
Wilson stared at Dewayne in silence for several seconds, his face expressionless. “We’ve got to get back to the mission.“
Dewayne nodded. “Sanchez.“ He remembered how the private had seemed to have made a miraculous recovery and then how, as the night had drawn on, his condition had worsened again. “He’s one of them.“
“Without a doubt,“ Wilson said.
Dewayne turned and stepped over the dead bodies lining the floor as he made his way to the saloon’s rear exit. “You know what we’ve got to do, Wilson.“ Dewayne reached the back door and peered outside. “It will be best if we just go in and take care of him first thing. Hard and fast. Easier on everybody, including Sanchez. We’ll explain it to the others afterward. You’ll have to back me up, Wilson. You’ll have tell them what we saw here. Okay? Wilson—?“
Dewayne turned to see Wilson staring at him, his eyes bulging from their sockets as a stream of blood ran from his mouth down his chin. Dewayne noticed something was sticking out of Wilson’s chest—the bloody tip of a sword. The sword sank back inside Wilson’s torso, and he dropped to the ground. Behind him, an insane smile on his blood-splattered face, Captain Arrington stood aiming a pistol at Dewayne’s heart.
From the journal of supernatural investigator Nathan Morrison…
14 May 85, 3 P.M.
We arrived at the site alleged to be the lost town of Perdition, New Mexico, at midday. The place definitely has an eerie quality about it that I’ve only encountered maybe once or twice elsewhere in my years of investigation. The well known black earth stretches for several hundred yards in diameter. It isn’t the fertile black soil it’s rumored to be, but rather a dust bowl of pitch. Like volcanic rock ground to dust. But that’s impossible, of course. Upon arrival, we immediately noticed a substantial drop in temperature. We took readings with the thermocouple to confirm what our fogged breath already told us. A that time, Steve called our attention to his digital watch—it was running at a highly accelerated rate, and seemed to be forming odd symbols rather than numbers. We unpacked our gear in full and took further readings. The EMF meter and my compass were haywire, their readings gibberish (still are). We were both excited and mystified to find these malfunctions cease if we leave the blackened earth. Are the legends true? Could this mesa of dark sand actually be where the lost town of Perdition once stood—where all those deaths supposedly took place? It would certainly explain what our instruments are registering.
15 March 85, 7:30 P.M.
We awoke to find Steve missing. He must have finally taken one too many drugs. Both trucks are still here, and Steve’s gear remains packed inside his tent, even his water. The desert will prove unkind to a man wandering without provisions. We searched the entire day but found no trace of him. Finally, with the sun setting, we decided to return to camp and make the most of the evening left to us. Steve will return when he sobers up enough. This is the last expedition I’m taking that son of a bitch on.
16 March 85, 3:01 A.M.
Minutes ago, I was awakened from a series of horrible nightmares by the sound of coyotes howling. I left my tent to find Dave and Sarah already outside checking the equipment. Everything was intact, but the readings were scrambled again (And it’s cold. Very fucking cold!). We flashed lights across our perimeter. The coyotes had to have been close to make such a racket, but I’ll be damned if we could spot a single one.
16 March 85, 8:15 A.M.
This morning, Sarah was gone. Dave is furious and thinks she’s run off with Steve. I don’t have the heart to tell him that can’t be true as I’m actually the one banging her behind his back. We agreed that he’d search for her (and Steve) while I stay behind to mind camp.
17 March 85, 2:12 A.M.
Dave never came back. The howling started again at midnight and it’s colder than shit out here despite the presence of the roaring fire I built. About 12:30 A.M. I said, “To hell with it!“ and packed up the gear in the trucks only to find neither one of them would start. I’m no mechanic, but it looks to me like someone’s tampered with the engine. It’s got to be fucking Steve! That goddamn maniac has finally flipped his lid. God knows what he’s done with Sarah and Dave. Probably killed them or worse. Jesus Christ. Why didn’t we bring a gun?
17 March 85, 3:30 A.M.
I was wrong about Steve. He, Sarah, and Dave were here not thirty seconds ago. They stood side-by-side on the edge of the fire’s light. I didn’t hear them come into camp. They just appeared there. I shouted at them, but they didn’t speak. They didn’t move. Hell, they didn’t breathe! And there was movement in the shadows behind them—hundreds of black shapes swirling just beyond my field of vision. Then they just disappeared. I mean exactly what I wrote. They were here one second, then gone the next. I’ve never seen anything like this. What the fuck is going on, here? God help me! I don’t want to die!
17 March 85, 6:15 A.M.
This will be my last entry into this journal. I’m alive, but I might as well be dead. I opened the cooler this morning to find the meat crawling with maggots. Somehow, overnight, it all spoiled. Even the power bars are rotten. And the water is gone—evaporated right out of the bottles. How does that happen? Even if I were to make it through the day, I know if I stay here tonight, I’m a goner. The trucks are done for, and the water gone, but San Ramirez can’t be more than thirty miles north of here. I might’ve possibly been able to make out where North actually lay if not for the strange, greenish fog that has formed in every direction. It’s blocking out the sun and the compasses refuse to work in it. Thanks to the fog, my chances of finding San Ramirez are next to none. But it’s the only hope I’ve got. I’ll leave this journal behind. If I don’t find San Ramirez and meet death by dehydration, or more likely, by (Dare I say it?) evil forces from beyond the grave, this notebook, if discovered, may be the only warning anyone else unfortunate enough to come to this accursed place—a place rightfully once known as Perdition (of that fact, I now have no doubt)—will ever have.
Yours sincerely with sound mind to the end,
Nathan Morrison
Chapter 10
THE MISSION FALLS
Private Hector Antonio Sanchez was burning up. His head was pounding and, despite the heat radiating off of him, he’d begun to shiver. He felt as though blazing red coals were crawling out of his gut and spreading through his body.
What the hell is wrong with me? Pain leaped into his chest and the private swooned at his station behind the Gatling gun.
“Now!“ Dewayne said. Then he exited the church, Wilson on
his heels. Little Joe pressed the open door within a foot of its twin, leaving a gap large enough for Farnsworth to squeeze through.
“How long should we give the writer?“ the reverend asked.
“You heard the bounty hunter,“ Maxine said. “Five minutes. He’s still got time.“
“He’s already dead, God rest his soul,“ Reverend Phillips argued. “You know that. Little Joe might as well go ahead and bar the door before one of those monsters forces its way inside. It’s the only smart thing to do.“
“I said he’s still got time! The least we can do is give him his five minutes. Little Joe?“
Little Joe folded his tree-trunk arms over his chest. “Five minutes.“
Phillips threw up his hands. “God in heaven!“
Sanchez wished they’d all just shut the fuck up. They were making him crazy. Couldn’t they see he wasn’t feeling well? Couldn’t they show him some goddamn courtesy? He’d lost everyone he knew in the entire world—had had to shoot and fight all night, even after having his stomach torn out by a fucking skinwalker. Was a little peace and quiet too much to ask, after all that? It was a sorry son of a bitch who couldn’t give a man a little rest after almost dying. Yes, sir. That was the worst kind of cocksucker. Sanchez wondered how they’d feel if they’d had their guts laid open. And then he imagined it, his thoughts occurring with startling clarity.
Sanchez saw himself leaning over Maxine as he plunged a knife into her belly. He wrenched it across her so that pink entrails bloomed from the wide gash in a bouquet of blood and gore. Sanchez found himself strangely exited by his vision. He looked down to see an erection pointing up at him from beneath his trousers. Before Sanchez realized what he was doing, he reached down and rubbed himself through the cloth of his pants. As he did so, he concentrated on the image, zooming his mind’s eye in closer as he hacked and slashed at the no-longer-so-lovely Maxine. He focused his mental gaze until he saw that he wasn’t holding a knife at all. He was ripping Maxine apart with his bare hands—no, not his hands, his claws.
Sanchez doubled over on top of the Gatling gun as another bolt of pain seared a blazing, white-hot path through his body.
Reverend Phillips placed an arm across Sanchez’s shoulders. “Son, are you all—?“
“Get the fuck off me!“ Sanchez rose from the Gatling gun and backhanded the reverend. Maxine screamed as Reverend Phillips’s body flew across the room to slam against the church doors. He dropped to the ground in a heap beside Little Joe.
“I’ve had enough of your shit!“ Sanchez yelled. “All of you, shut your goddamn—!“ Sanchez screamed in agony. “Too fucking hot!“ His words became an inhuman wail as he tore off the bandage covering his torso. Sanchez’s wounds were now only tiny scars. But they glowed with the same sickly green light as the mist.
Fur began to sprout along Sanchez’s body. His limbs whipped and snapped into new, pseudo-lupine shapes, their bones elongating and reforming beneath skin and muscle. Sanchez’s screams continued all the while. It was a scene of right out of the bowels of hell.
“He’s one of them!“ Maxine screamed. “God help us, he’s a skinwalker!“
Maxine bolted from the room for the rectory. Little Joe wanted to join her, but found he couldn’t move. He stood frozen with horror, rooted to the floor as Sanchez transformed before his eyes.
The private’s body swelled. New ribs popped audibly into place along Sanchez’s elongating torso. The private’s clawed feet exploded from his boots. His heels lengthened and lifted off the floor to snap into place below lupine hindquarters. Sanchez’s face and skull pulled away from each other, the former morphing into a canine grimace, the latter sloping backward so that two large, pointy ears rose into the air several inches above it.
At last, Private Sanchez towered before Little Joe in the shape of a snarling skinwalker. Little Joe thought the change had seemed to take an eternity. In truth, it had only lasted seconds.
The beast that had been Private Sanchez seized the Gatling gun in its claws. At first, Little Joe had the crazy idea that the skinwalker was going to shoot him—use the Gatling gun to blow him into a thousand little pieces. But it quickly became apparent to Little Joe whatever intelligence this monster had possessed as Private Sanchez was now gone. Only an instinct-powered predator remained.
The skinwalker roared, straining until it at last heaved the Gatling gun out of its path. The gun crashed against the stacks of pews with a loud clatter. As it landed, one of its wheels broke away and its six barrels bent into scrap metal.
The commotion shocked Little Joe back into the dire reality of his situation. He gazed into the monster’s yellow eyes and, in that moment, he knew the truth. This was not Private Sanchez, nor any mere skinwalker. This was his dog-brother from so long ago—the one he had killed to win Garrett’s approval. And now the rabid beast had come back from the spirit world to claim its revenge.
Little Joe felt his upper lip curl into a snarl. His own growl rose in the back of his throat. Suddenly, his knife was out of his belt and in his hand, held so that the blade pointed downward.
Come then, brother. I am ready. Come and we shall dance one last time.
Little Joe lunged forward and crashed into the skinwalker. The beast was caught off-guard by the native’s attack, and went tumbling backward. As they fell, Little Joe repeatedly sank his knife into the monster, using the blade to search for that special crevice between its ribs that opened to the heart.
They hit the floor and the skinwalker roared, its voice a mixture of pain and anger. It seized Little Joe in its long claws and flung the native from its body. Little Joe tumbled across the floor, but the knife remained locked in his grip.
Little Joe halted to see Reverend Phillips skirting away through the gap between the doors. But the native had no time to worry about this. In truth, the reverend’s flight only registered in Little Joe’s subconscious mind. All form of higher thought had left him. Like the skinwalker he battled, Little Joe was now an animal—the very monster Garrett had always wanted him to be.
He whirled and saw the skinwalker already on its feet, charging toward him. Little Joe ducked and rolled, and the beast crashed into the wall. While the skinwalker was dazed, Little Joe leapt on top of its back and sank his knife into the soft spots between the monster’s shoulder blades. The skinwalker roared in agony. But this time, its howl was accompanied by bright red blood pouring from its mouth.
The skinwalker bucked and twisted, trying to dislodge Little Joe. Little Joe locked his arm around the skinwalker’s throat and continued making a pin cushion out of its back. Finally, the monster threw itself against the church wall, crushing Little Joe’s body with its own. Little Joe released his hold and the monster broke away.
Before Little Joe could recover, the skinwalker pounced. Little Joe screamed as the creature sank its jaws into the spot where his neck and shoulder met. Black roses bloomed around Little Joe’s field of vision. Memories of the dog closing its fanged mouth over his face galloped through his mind. Then the skinwalker’s teeth sank deeper and all he saw in his mind’s eye was blinding white pain.
The sensation brought him to his senses. Little Joe was once again able to feel the weight of the knife locked in his grip. He turned the knife over in his hand and then thrust it upward. Hard. The blade plunged into the skinwalker’s ear, slicing open the canal leading to its brain. Little Joe yelled and summoned the last of his strength as he gave the knife a final push. Through the knife’s handle, he felt momentary resistance, then the giving way of brain matter.
The skinwalker bit down harder for a moment. Then its jaws fell away and it uttered its death rattle. The beast went limp. Little Joe rolled the dead monster off of him, heaving through pain and exhaustion.
“Damn you…brother.“ Little Joe’s words came hard between gasps. “Again you have left me…alive to walk in this accursed world…yet another day.“
Reverend Phillips knew Little Joe had taken leave of his senses when he saw th
e native leap into the waiting claws of the skinwalker. He watched transfixed as both man and beast collided in an ultra-violent struggle of life and death. But which is the man and which is the beast? He was no longer sure. Reverend Phillips saw nothing of the person he’d known as Little Joe broadcasting from the native’s eyes. Like the skinwalker Little Joe battled, fury and hate and the desire to kill had taken up residence in the twin windows to the native’s soul.
To hell with both of them.
The reverend rose into a crouch, placing himself in the gap between the mission doors. He felt a dull sensation wanting to be pain radiating throughout his body. But for the moment, his adrenaline had compacted it into a manageable form.
He glanced back and saw Little Joe lying on his side, staring at him—or rather, beyond him—as the native struggled to get back on his feet.
It was the pure rage in Little Joe’s eyes that sent the reverend scrambling on through the gap. No matter what awaited him out here, it couldn’t be as bad as the horror transpiring inside the mission. Only death lay there. If not from the skinwalker, then from the beast that had once been Little Joe, should it survive the fray with its fury intact.
